


Pull the Trigger

by ikitsunechann



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Cuban Lance (Voltron), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Fluff and Angst, Gay Keith (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Sexual Humor, Sexual Tension, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 01:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10560760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikitsunechann/pseuds/ikitsunechann
Summary: It's been years since the outbreak. In that time Lance had long grown numb to pain and suffering. He'd pulled the trigger too many times that doesn't hope anymore. Doesn't dream. His only philosophy in life is to expect the unexpected. What he didn't expect though, was to find love in this hopeless, cruel world. Love in the form of a hot-headed, knife-obsessed mullet.(Or, that Klance Zombie-Apocalypse AU that no one wanted nor needed but got it anyway)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is my first contribution to this fandom. Any Spanish sentences will be translated in the ending notes.  
> I hope you enjoy reading!

“Listen to me,” a faint voice coos at him. The building in front of their modest home was crumbling into dust, down to the ground below. But he can barely register the chaos happening outside. The screaming, the sirens and the explosions all come together as shrill buzzing in his ears.  
  
It’s loud.  
  
Everything is so _loud_.  
  
“Even if this world is falling apart— even if you are scared or alone, you have to be strong.” There are multiple shotgun shells scattered around his vicinity. He’s jostled out of his stupor when he hears some shots being fired out in the kitchen, accompanied by screams and some occasional curses that he could barely make out. He blinks his eyes once, twice, realizes he hasn’t taken his sight off the fallen corpse before him.  
  
Bella. His baby niece Isabella. Shot clean through the head. A few inches shy from where his mother is.  
  
Ah. His mother.  
  
His poor, sweet mamá. Lying on the cold, tile floor. Hair in complete disarray. Clothes ripped and bathed in bright, bright red. Bleeding profusely. Struggling to breathe. Bended. Mutilated. Bitten. Broken.  
  
But miraculously, still alive.  
  
“When you think hope is lost and you are about to give up,” A cool, blood-stained palm rest against his cheek, rubbing soothing circles and smearing the skin in red. The scent wafts to his nose and he’s vaguely aware of their modest living room smelling like copper. “Push through. Tienes que ser fuerte—”  
  
_Blood._  
  
A distant voice calls out to him, from the kitchen then. “Mijo! What are you doing?! We have to go—!” it bellowed, before grunting in pain and then the shots resume their horrific symphony in the air. He had no idea whose voice was it. His father? His uncle? It didn’t matter anymore.  
  
_Blood everywhere._  
  
“Get up boy! Help me over here—” the voice called out again, but he could only focus at the trembling hand on his cheek, and the bittersweet trail of red trickling down, down, down.  
  
_His mother’s blood. Isabella’s blood. Blood in his face. Blood in his hands—_  
  
“Tienes que sobrevivir.”  
  
At that, his gaze trails down to tired, brown eyes. He frantically searches for any sign of hope or reassuring gestures that may remain behind those once bright irises. But all he can see is emptiness in their depths. His breath catches in his throat and suddenly, it hurts to even breathe.  
  
“Mijo… Mi querido valiente hijo. No estés triste,” A cold dread seeps through his chest, squeezing at his heart like a vice grip. When he closes his eyes, the tears start streaming down against his will. It feels warm against numb skin. He clenches his hand into a fist to hide the violent shaking, can’t help the sobs and whimpers that leave his mouth.  
  
“I can’t hold them much longer! We have to go NOW!” This is where he hears his younger brother Julian’s anguished cries, his Tia Carla doing a poor job of consoling his frightened soul.  
  
“Goodbyes are not the end. They simply mean I’ll miss you,” She struggles to finish. He can feel it. He can feel her changing. She suddenly digs her fingers into his hand and feels the nails rupture his skin. Before the virus can take hold of her mind, she takes his hand and maneuvers it in such a way that the weapon is pointed at her head. “And until we meet again.”  
  
“Prométeme… Que sobrevivirás...” She whispers, faint. It takes a while, but he jerks his head weakly at her words. She smiles somberly and pets his hair. He hears a muffled murmur of Te amo against his hand before she convulses violently, eyes rolling back in her head. A guttural groan escapes her lips.  
  
“LANCE!!!”  
  
  
He pulls the trigger.  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
That was Lance McClain’s last memory of his life before the virus took over the world— before Earth became the true embodiment of a living hell. How it happened, nobody knows. There were different versions to the story of how the virus came to be, but the majority of the rumors were either too dubious or farfetched.  
  
The most accepted claim was that major drug cartels smuggled contrabands into the country via drug mules. The drug they used was a modified concoction of the Zombie drug Flakka, a version much more stimulating and lethal.  
  
Apparently one of the bags inside the mules ripped due to excessive movement and sloppy packaging. The mule had an epic seizure in the airport and was rushed to the hospital. Upon inspection, the doctors found that the bag had been emptied. The drug had long integrated itself inside the mule’s body to the point of seizing. Their blood streams were clogged, and several vital organs were all shown to be inflamed. Subject was practically brain dead on arrival.  
  
However, instead of dying from the aforementioned overdose, the mule’s cells had developed an uncanny mutation that bonded with the substance. Not only did the original side effects of the drug remain, they heightened to another level of dangerous. That’s how humankind contracted the virus: by creating a mindless madman in a perpetual state of excited delirium.  
  
  
The symptoms of the virus are quite easy to distinguish. Pale, crumbling skin that peels off here and there; skin that smells like rotting flesh. Another noticeable sign is the clouding of the lens, making carriers look like they have cataract. True to the comparison, the infected are blind. In certain cases, the eye can be milky but bloodshot and if you encounter a carrier like this, it’s best to not engage in combat.  
The decaying or yellowing of teeth is another factor. The canines aren’t necessarily sharpened or longer despite the claims. Any infected are incapable of speech, and can only produce incoherent animal noises varying from grunts, groans, hisses to screeches.  
  
There are three classifications of infected: the normal ones, those that limp or stagger around. They’re your typical zombie stereotype from the movies. Next you have the crawling ones which is pretty much self-explanatory. Finally, those that can run. They’re not intelligent in particular, but who the hell likes a zombie that can chase you?  
  
Also, the most important fact one needs to know about the infected is that despite being blind, they have refined hearing; proving to be sensitive to sound. The clattering of metal is enough to make a few in close proximity turn around. Gunfire can attract a horde.  
  
One can imagine what a bomb or grenade can do.  
  
  
And they were violent. Very much so. They don’t prey on people because they need to feed, no. Based from observation, the infected don’t need flesh to replenish nutrients for their cells or whatnot. They kill for the sake of killing. And that’s even more terrifying.  
  
A single bite or transfer of fluids from one body to another, be it blood or saliva, can trigger the infection. It takes time for the virus to spread so the change usually begins after a solid two hours. The symptoms for changing isn’t exactly discreet, so one could tell from afar if a person was bitten or not.  
  
Simply shooting or slicing the infected won’t cut it. There’s no guarantee that they’ll stay on the ground even if they take a bullet to the head. While most do indeed die from a headshot, for safety measures, it’s best to burn the body after. Just to be sure. Being overly cautious nowadays is your saving grace.  
  
That’s all Lance knows regarding the virus.  
  
It’s been three years and a half since the outbreak. America and all its states had long fallen into ruin. The majority of the population were contaminated, leaving a small number survivors: Those that managed to live through the apocalypse and are still roaming around, and those who’ve escaped to other countries. Though Lance doesn’t know the condition of the world as of now, the last he heard was that Russia, China, Japan and the Philippines were also struck with the virus.  
  
Now he’s not so sure.  
  
Lance and Hunk, his childhood friend, are one of the many few that survived the infection. Lance doesn’t know how they managed to hold on for so long, but they did.  
  
Which is why they’re here, currently scavenging for food and water. Half of their resources were exhausted a week prior, due to an unfortunate incident regarding the infected and some barbed wire. Lance still breaks out in a cold sweat remembering it.  
  
Hunk, being his paranoid self, declared that they were running low on survival items. They had enough canned goods and granola bars to last them a month honestly. But the thing is Hunk gets jittery when their cupboards have even a minuscule of free space to them. And nothing could cure that itch unless they restock. It’s something Lance didn’t mind really, better overflowing with supplies rather than lacking them.  
  
With that said, they came down from the comfort of their nest, down to the eerie streets of Holbrook Avenue. 30 minutes into their hunt, they still had nothing to fill their bags save for the batteries, empty cans and scrap crayons lying around the ground.  
  
Lance spots a group of infected gathered around the front of a store. One look was all Hunk needed to get the message. Lance swallows down a choked breath and takes a right for the alley. They end up behind said store. There doesn’t seem to be any infected roaming the vicinity. Carefully, so quietly, Lance reaches for the doorknob and turns it silently after seeing that it wasn’t locked. He took a peek inside.  
  
Since there weren’t that much infected surrounding the building, there’s probably none inside. It’ll be a piece of cake, right?  
  
Wrong.  
  
Lance’s eyes widened in horror and he almost choked on his own spit. What assumes to be the pantry of the store was swarming with infected at every nook and cranny. He felt the hair on his arms rise. Lance took a quick glance around the place, hoping there wasn’t anything remotely useful to them in there cause _Jesus_ , he really didn’t want to take even a single step inside.  
  
Then he saw it. There, at the far end where the aisle meets the main store, were a few dusty, but unopened cans. Some were bent around the corners, but that’s a minor setback. Lance couldn’t clearly see the label, but it was red. Food. Definitely food. That was good enough for him. He can appreciate red labeled cans, no problemo.  
  
Lance backed off to let Hunk assess the situation himself. Lance could feel the exact moment his best friend tensed up. Biting his lower lip, Lance weighed their options. The front of the store had less infected, but to get in, they’d either have to pass through two giant windows with broken glass. If they so much step on the glass fragments and god forbid it make a sound, they’re screwed.  
  
Or, they could open the door and walk in. However Lance noticed that the hinges were quite rusty and he fears that it’ll probably make an ugly, screeching sound if they move it even by a quarter inch. Plus the glass around the door would make crunching noises too. They’re still screwed. If not, worse.  
  
Meanwhile here at the back, were a hell lot of infected. Estimated around 11 or so. It’s a tight fit so they’d have to limbo their way around to get to the far end without initiating any direct contact with them. It’s a risky move but there was nothing in the way that would make any unwarranted noise to attract attention.  
  
Lance took one quick glance behind to see if there was nothing creeping up on them. When there was none, he exhaled the breath he was holding and inhaled a lungful once more. Hunk was looking at him, the fear and concern evident in his eyes.  
  
Quietly, Lance leaned over and whispered into Hunk’s ears, “I’m going in. You stay here and guard my gay ass.” Hunk’s eyes widened at that and he shook his head violently.  
  
“Hell no dude! And aren’t you bisexual…? The point is, I’m not letting you in there alone—”  
  
“Hunk. Mi amigo. Brochacho. No offense, but you’d probably be a human bump car in there.” Hunk opens his mouth to say something, stares back into the building and promptly closes it. They used to argue over such things, of the dangers of getting items and risking their lives for a measly can. Hunk used to be so against it. However, years of survival taught them that there’s really no room for argument. Not when they’re in dire need of supplies. Not anymore. Lance huffed in response and took out his knife from its sheath, and ever so silently sauntered his way inside.  
  
Hunk anxiously watches Lance twist and bend his body out of the way whenever an infected got too close. Having direct contact with that rotting skin could cause rashes, after all. And it could potentially alert the infected of his presence. Speaking from experience, Hunk didn’t want that happening again. _Ever_.  
  
Lance was getting closer. _Almost there_.  
  
He did his best to maneuver himself from the infected trudging his way. He bends low to avoid the infected waving his arms around. Soon as he raises his head and looks forward, he's face to face with a rotting mug just a few inches away from his. Lance’s heart started hammering in his chest. He could feel newly formed sweat trickling down his back.  
  
 _Shit!_  
  
The ugly thing hisses menacingly, and Lance thinks his knees might buckle out from underneath him. From the corner of his eye, he can see Hunk ready to burst inside. Lance raises his hand, gestures at him to sit the fuck down. There were infected behind and beside him, not that close but not too far either. If he scoots a little then there’s still a chance of survival—  
  
Luckily, the infected in front of him simply turned right and ventured that way. Lance doesn’t exhale in relief, but it’s a close thing. He notices Hunk’ shoulders visibly sag for a second before they resume its tense hunching.  
  
Lance keeps walking towards the cans. When he was within reach, he carefully grabbed a few and stuffed them in his pack with one hand, the other gripping the knife tightly. He thanks his lucky stars that the bag was opened beforehand. Hunk had long discovered a way to strategically arrange blankets in their packs in such a way that anything inside won’t clatter and jingle. Basic survival in this world. Go Hunk.  
  
After collecting all the cans, Lance immediately stands up, noticing an infected was hastily approaching his direction. He backs up immediately, back touching the mossy concrete wall. The infected limps past him and onto the glass-filled front. Lance mentally counts how many cans he’s picked. Three cans of tuna and one corn soup. Hopefully not expired but they make do with anything they pick up anyways. It’s a good addition to their collection.  
  
Food check. Now onto the water.  
  
If Lance thought going in was bad enough, then going back was far, far worse. Thankfully, the pantry got less congested due to the open door. A few infected had left and some are currently leaving but the problem is, a fucking crawling one had made itself at home in the center of the pantry. Lance glares at Hunk, raising his hands defensively.  
  
Lance clenched his fist. God. He hated infected that were crawling. They aren’t a major threat or anything but never underestimate them. They could fast if they wanted, pull you down by the ankles and start tearing away at your gut. That’s a big no-no in Lance’s book. Not to mention they were downright creepy. The stuff of nightmares. He didn’t want to pass by it, let alone look at it.  
  
But he had no choice.  
  
  
  
Bracing himself, Lance makes his way back towards the exit, as quietly and carefully as he can manage.  
  
He was almost close to the door when suddenly loud crashing erupted from behind, just outside the building he was in, followed by a desperate shrilly shout.  
  
“KEITH!!!”  
  
Lance's head snaps towards the door and considers strangling whomever decided to screw things up for them. The closest infected to him was the crawling one too, and Lance hopes that it was preoccupied with something else to notice him— When he looks back to the direction said infected, he’s met with a horrendous face staring back at him, grinning maliciously.  
  
The color drains from his face.  
  
Lance bolts out of the establishment just as the infected rams itself to the wall, grabbing a petrified Hunk sweating bullets like a sinner in Church. Lance can’t help but pat his back reassuringly. They book it away from the store, short-lived victory and relief was then focused to the crash and the scream. Without another word, they head straight to the source.  
  
  
When they round the corner to the highway, they’re greeted by the horrifying sight of a horde swarming a school bus. Lance saw that atop said bus was a man in a red jacket which looks about their age. Beside him was a teen, eyes blown wide in panic, clenching a duffel bag to his chest. They were stranded and trapped on all sides.  
  
Okay, Lance wasn’t going to sugarcoat it— they were screwed. In more ways than one.  
  
He internally panics and frantically looks around for a way to help them. Lance could tell from Hunk biting cuts into his lower lip that he felt the same. He grasps Hunk’s shoulder and spun him in such a way that they were looking at each other.  
  
“Listen man, we gotta distract the horde. There’s still that M67 we kept—”Lance starts unbuckling the straps of the Hunk’s bag. The taller screeches and backs away from Lance’s prying fingers.  
  
“What! No way dude! I thought you said we won’t use it unless we’re in a really desperate situation—”  
  
Lance groans and throws his hands in the air. “This _IS_ a desperate situation Hunk!”  
  
“But,” Hunk darts his eyes between the horde and Lance frantically, worrying his lower lip. “This our last grenade man! I’m not sure if we can find another one of these easi—”  
  
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there my dude!” Lance hastily grabs the bag and withdraws their prized M67, handling it with gentle, shaking fingers.  
  
“On three, I’ll create a diversion while you go grab them,” He cocks his head over to said them, proving his point. “Signal me when you’re good then I’ll chuck this baby into the horde and then we skedaddle outta here!”  
  
“That’s really not a thorough plan Lance!” Lance peers over the bus, the more time passes the more infected are gathering around them. And the way the red jacket dude is firing his AK around in a hot mess and creating more noise is _not_ helping their situation at all. It won’t be long that there will be enough infected to total the bus. Lance groans in frustration and pulls out a black, shiny pistol from its holster. “We don’t have time for careful planning!”  
  
Hunk’s eyes widen at that, hand shooting out to clutch at Lance’s arm despairingly. “Dude— don’t tell me you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do—”  
  
“You can’t really grab them if they’re swarmed from all sides Hunk!”  
  
“Dude please,” Hunk wheezes breathily, the tone in his voice indicating the taller male to be this close to hyperventilating and Lance winces at that. “Cut it out man! There’s gotta be another way, you— you can’t keep—”  
  
“Enough chit-chat, we got some people to save!”  
  
“Lance—”  
  
“On three! One, two—” Hunk’s eyes widen at the abrupt reckoning and scrambles to pull his out a bat from his bag. Meanwhile, Lance backs out at a safe distance and takes a deep, shuddering breath.  
  
“HEY! OVER HERE PENDEJOS!” Lance yelled loudly to get their attention. Soon enough, several infected were snapping around to face the abrupt noise. Lance feels the trepidation settling in his gut, the bile slowly rising to his throat at all the distorted, bloody faces staring back at him. He could feel the exact moment goosebumps break out on his arms.  
  
Lance was scared. So, so scared. But he had to keep it together. He had to stick to the plan.  
  
He’s not going to leave somebody to die on his watch.  
  
Never again.  
  
Gripping the gun tighter, Lance steels his resolve. He’s never missed a single target in his life. It’ll be chill. Easy breezy.  
  
  
He pulls the trigger.  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
The first gunshot rings loudly in the still air, disturbing everything from its peaceful state; the poor, startled birds take to the sky for cover. The waters sway and ripple. Even the heavens seems to grieve at the disruption below.  
  
The once silent avenue is filled with the wails and groans of the undead, intent clear as they dart towards the perpetrator. To silence him.  
  
  
  
Permanently.  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
“That idiot that idiot that dumb idiot—” Hunk emerges from his hiding spot after all infected lost interest of the bus. Bat in hand, tension grating his nerves, labored breathing and all, Hunk dashes towards the bus.  
  
“Hey! Um, you guys up there!”  
  
Hunk’s eyes made brief contact with the other dude— the one in the red leather jacket, before being faced with the barrel of his assault rifle.  
  
“DUDE!” Hunk gasps and frowns disapprovingly at the stranger. Said stranger’s death glare sours even more. Why didn’t they think this through? These people they were ‘ _supposed_ ’ to save could be rogues and there’s a possibility that he’d shoot Hunk a new asshole instead of accepting their help.  
  
This is how Hunk passes onto the afterlife, Ladies and gentlemen. Death by broody faces and leather jackets instead of the infected. This was not how he planned to go.  
  
Dammit, Lance.  
  
Hunk is going keep blaming him. Even in Heaven.  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
The plan seemed relatively easier in his head, Lance mused while dashing around like a madman. He’d smashed several abandoned bottles lying around to draw and hold the attention of the horde. Hey, becoming a distraction isn’t exactly easy breezy. He laments the naivety of past Lance a few minutes ago.  
  
But this wasn’t exactly the first time he’d done something as reckless as being a distraction. He’s attempted even crazier things before. Half of them almost cost his life. He’s alive and kicking right?  
  
So he does his best to lure them away from the bus. Lance takes deep breaths and goes over it once more. Just lure them into circles, gather in all infected in a group. Hunk gives the signal, throw grenade into aforementioned group and watch the suckers’ kaboom like the fourth of July.  
  
Try not to get bitten, live to see another day.  
  
Yeah. Easier said than done. He gets ten points for planning and zero for execution.  
  
Lance shoots an infected that was close to grabbing him, the bullet hitting its mark straight and true. “Headshot!” Lance whoops and curves around to the opposite direction to keep them in a tight circle. “That’s what I’m talking abou—”  
  
Just then, the downed infected that he just shot grabs at his ankle, startling and effectively tripping him. Holy hell how did he recover fast from that epic headshot. Lance lands on the ground front first, palms and knees smashing into the several broken glass shards from the bottles he broke earlier.  
  
“SHIT!” In hindsight— that was probably not the smartest thing to do.  
  
  
  
His eyes widen in horror at the infected makes a slow show of trying to sink it’s horrendous teeth on Lance’s leg. Lance shoots him again before that could happen. Once, twice for good measure.  
  
He pushed himself off the ground despite the incisions in his palms.  
  
Luckily his pants was thick enough to withstand being pierced.  
  
It takes a few seconds before the pain starts kicking in. Lance hisses, barely suppressing a whimper while the sharp, burning sting of the cuts distracts him from the task at hand. Uh, not now hand! We can talk about this later!  
  
A quick peek at Hunk shows that he’s made zero progress whatsoever to grab them. Lance curses under his breath and keeps running for dear life.  
  
 _Anytime now, Hunk._  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
“Hey man! Not cool! We’re trying to help you here!” He counters weakly, the AK not budging at all. Hunk can appreciate a sweet gun, yeah sure. But what he doesn’t appreciate is having said sweet gun pointed at his head. “Look if you can um— you know, lower your weapon and not headshot the person trying to save your ass that’d be really great!”  
  
“Keith! Stop it!” The kid hisses at jacket man, (Keith apparently) and tugs harshly at his sleeve. “He said they’re trying to help us!”  
  
“The fuck Pidge!” Keith growls into the kid— Pidge’s face. “He could be lying! What if they save us only to rob us blind after? We can’t trust them!” Hunk groans and facepalms. Okay, so he’s one of those people. The kind that doesn’t trust others. Hunk can honestly understand, no harsh feelings on this side but the thing is they’re not really so hot on time right now.  
  
“Dude, _please_. My best friend is over there risking his life— we gotta go now.” Hunk pleads, eyes snapping over nervously to Lance’s figure after three consecutive shots. A pistol didn’t have enough bullets to last them even a month after all, and Hunk doesn’t know how many Lance has fired or how many was left. Hunk clenches his fist at the sight of his best friend’s bloody hands. From the corner of his eye, he sees Keith follows his gaze, face pinching into a deep scowl. Keith seems to consider it because he drops his weapon. Albeit hesitantly.  
  
Hunk sighs in relief. That's good enough. He'll take it. He helps Pidge off the bus and Keith, still glaring and keeping a death grip on his gun, jumps after her. Hunk raises a hand and whistles loudly at Lance, who perks up at that.  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
As soon as he hears the signal escape Hunk’s lips, Lance halts his shooting (Perfect timing, considering he only had one bullet left. Heh) and promptly bit the clip off the grenade; with all his might, hurled it straight at the horde.  
  
Regardless of sore muscles and bloody limbs, he makes the last effort to ditch Joseph Campau Avenue, trailing after Hunk and the two rescued strangers.  
  
Lance did a mental countdown, and surely enough, the telltale boom of a grenade quaked the ground and resonated loudly in the air.  
  
They’ve managed to escape with a few scrapes here and there. But other than that, things went relatively well considering this was a panicked on-the-spot plan. Lance gave himself a figurative pat on the back.  
  
That’s right. This is how we do.  
  
Go, team.  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
They kept running.  
  
Running for what felt like hours.  
  
Lance’s legs felt like putty at this point that he almost missed the quiet, “Over here,” murmured by Hunk, beckoning for the group to follow. It was then Lance realized they were already outside Lance and Hunk’s humble abode. Wow. They ran that far?  
  
Well, it wasn’t _that_ far considering that the store they just ransacked and their safe house was only a 30-minute walk away.  
  
But still.  
  
As for why Lance was so distracted that he barely notices the familiarity of their surroundings, let’s just say he wasn’t distracted per say. More like focused on guarding Jacket man’s six just so no infected goes near him, staring at his backside a little more than necessary.  
  
A little bit too focused to be honest.  
  
They did ran into some trouble on the way, you’d expect some infected to hear their footsteps, gasping and panting like they ran a damn mile. It was all good thought, nothing they couldn’t handle.  
  
  
Making sure no unwanted visitor was coming along with them, Hunk lifted the steel shutters just enough for them to be able to slide under. Once everyone was in and accounted for, Hunk slid it back down taking mind to slam it gently so that it wouldn’t attract that much attention.  
  
Lance and Hunk had a silent staring contest with their new guests for a few moments before Lance voiced out, “It’s okay, we’re safe here.”  
  
There was a collective sigh from the both of them before jacket man over here started glaring daggers at them. The kid with him groaned in frustration and pinched the bridge of his? Her? nose before smiling sheepishly. “Hey, thanks a lot for saving us back there. I thought we were goners for a second.”  
  
“No worries man, it’s all cool.” Lance grins crookedly, then winks at leather jacket in particular cause heck. Now that Lance can gawk at him freely, he finally notices that the guy was actually really hot. That messy black hair tied in a loose bun was definitely pull-able and his lean, sweaty body was chiseled by the gods. Muscular, but not to the point of bulging like he downed steroids for dinner.  
  
And sweet Jesus _that ass_.  
  
Lance pulls on the cockiest smirk he could manage and drapes himself over leather jacket, who all but stiffens under his arms. “You can just tell me your name, gorgeous. And we’ll call it even.”  
  
He hears a faint ‘Oh boy’ from the kid and before Lance can even process what’s happening, he’s met with an sharp elbow to the gut and the front of a smoking rifle beauty pressed against his forehead. Hunk groans and buries his face in his hands, muttering “Not this shit again,”  
  
Lance lets out an unmanly, pained yelp and raised one hand in the air, the other cradling his stomach.  
  
“Owch _FUCK_!” Lance curls up on himself, groaning at the aching skin and glares back at scowly dude. His eyebrows are knit together, nose scrunched. He looks downright murderous. “What gives? Watch where you’re pointing that thing!”  
  
“This _thing_ will blast you to kingdom come if you don’t back the fuck up,” The dude hisses at Lance, teeth bared just a fraction and holy fuck Lance should not find that hot. Not when said dude is a trigger-pull away from totally blasting his brain. But it is what it is. Lance was a weak, weak sinner.  
  
“Get a load of this Hunk! This bitch had the nerve! The audaci _ty_ —”  
  
“Oh my god Keith we just went through this.” The kid smacked the rifle away like it was a damn fly and shoves hot leather jacket (Keith, Lance reminds himself) away from Lance’s vicinity. “I’m so sorry about this,” they gesture to Keith’s whole being, dutifully ignoring his disgruntled ‘ _Hey_!’  
  
“I’m Pidge Holt, she or they pronouns are fine with me,” ‘Pidge is a she?! ’ “And this one that keeps waving his big-ass gun around is Keith Kogane. We’re thankful that you showed up. I seriously thought that was it for us... Really, thank you, um—”  
  
“Like I said earlier, it’s no big deal. I’m Lance McClain and that over there is my buddy and partner in crime: Hunk Garret.” Hunk straightens up at his name being mentioned and waves shyly at them. “So Pidgey, don’t mind me asking but what were you doing over there? And how did you guys manage to get stranded on a bus?”  
  
Pidge’s lips quirked up at the nickname, from irritation or amusement, Lance didn’t know. But she didn’t react violently so Lance supposed it was fine. “Well, you see… We were supposed to salvage some parts. Car engine parts to be precise. All we needed was some distributors, exhaust manifolds, oil filters, oil pumps…”  
  
Pidge started babbling on about the several of hundreds of parts she needed and Lance tuned out for a second, opting to ogle Keith’s frowny but charming mug. Hunk listens to her talk on with rapture though, nodding fervently at each item and what she planned to use it for. By the time she mentioned car batteries, Lance’s attention zoned back in onto the conversation. It was then Pidge started explaining how they got themselves stranded on the bus.  
  
“…And therefore I concluded the battery was in working condition but needed some minor adjustments so I decided to hotwire the vehicle to further prove my theory. As soon as I finished though—” she turns to give Keith the stink eye. “This one over here just _had_ to head-butt the bus and trigger the damn alarm!”  
  
“Dammit, Pidge! I told you it was an accident! How was I supposed to know it was working?” Keith groaned in frustration and raked a hand through his greasy black hair. “The compartment was jammed! What if there were supplies in there?”  
  
Before the argument could escalate any further, and frankly because Hunk could already feel a headache forming with all the squabbling, he placed a hand on Pidge and gently cooed. “Well at least you guys are safe, right? I know you need to gather parts but for now, why don’t we take a raincheck?”  
  
Lance hummed in agreement. “Yeah. You guys could crash with me and Hunk for the night and resume your foraging mission tomorrow like the good soldiers you are. Sounds good, Pidgey?”  
  
Pidge bit her lower lip, clearly not up to the suggestion but resigned to anyways. “It is getting pretty dark out…” Hunk’s lips tilt upward into a relieved smile. Lance warily eyes Pidge’s companion. “Keith?”  
  
“What if you both shank us in our sleep? Why should I trust a bunch of lone hobos?” He snaps out, colder than the North and South Pole combined that Hunk winces at the words. Lance draws himself to his full height and huffs out in annoyance. “Woah, take a chill pill man. Is that how you show thanks to Hunk and your amazing, devilishly handsome savior?”  
  
“Excuse me? I don’t owe you anything. We had that under control.” Lance snorts and smirks down at Keith. The smaller male walks up closer to Lance until they’re pressed against each other. “Oh yeah? So flopping about uselessly on a stranded bus is how you had it under control?”  
  
“Piss off, Moreno. I don’t need your help.”  
  
“Wow, talk about salt,” Keith’s scowl intensifies and he looks just about ready to maul Lance. “You’re saltier than the Dead Sea. Who shoved a metaphorical stick up your ass, cabrón?”  
  
“Alright!” Hunk intervenes, glancing between Keith and Lance nervously. “So uh, Lance and I just found some food before we saved you both! Well, um probably expired food now that I think about it and— if you guys are hungry, I could, I mean… Whip up dinner for all of us?”  
  
Keith and Lance continue to glower at each other, several seconds pass by until Lance sighs and backs away from their silent staredown. The carefree grin easily slips back onto his tan face and he stalks off into their ‘apartment’. Said apartment used to be a two-storey boutique shop, Keith notes.  
  
“Hell yeah man! This boi is starving! And I’m like, 99% sure that one those has corn soup, and who doesn’t love expired corn soup! Amirite?”  
  
Soon after Hunk accompanied his friend inside, Pidge pinched Keith’s arm harshly; fingers digging cruel indents into his skin. “OW! Pidge—”  
  
“What was that?” Pidge gazed up at him, eyes scrutinizing with a dangerous glint to them. Keith flinches. He recognizes that look. It’s that face she makes whenever she finds something relatively interesting. So interesting that she has to get her little curious hands on it and pry it apart— piece by piece, to unravel the contents and do a thorough examination of the interior until she understands every inch, every crevice of it. Keith shudders at the unwavering the stare of those amber irises.  
  
“Huh? What do you mean—”  
  
“Don’t ‘ _huh, what do you mean_ ’ me. What was that all about? You don’t usually get _that_ snappy with strangers. You were fine with Hunk.” She huffs, crossing her arms in front of their chest, a smirk plastered on her lips. Keith didn’t like it. At all.  
  
“I don’t like him! Didn’t you see Pidge? That guy is an asshole—” Pidge snorts at that.  
  
“What? I think he’s okay. I guess you probably couldn’t tell, seeing as you were too busy with your thirst.” She starts walking towards the apartment, going after Hunk and Lance. Keith chokes on his own spit and consequently, feels his face heat up.  
  
“What the hell Pidge. I was irritated. IRRITATED.”  
  
“I am an intellectual human being capable of distinguishing between irritation and thirst. And you, Keith Kogane, are highkey thirsting for that Hispanic tool.” Keith can feel the smugness radiating off them in waves. He groans.  
  
“No, I am _not_. And not another word about this.”  
  
They go up the stairs, came across two doors, one to the left and other to the right. The left side door was wide open though. From the inside, they could hear Hunk and Lance inside… arguing? Were they arguing? Keith couldn’t really make out what they were both saying, with Lance was spewing off rapid-fire Spanish to Hunk, who could only nod solemnly and reply in soft, reassuring murmurs.  
  
“Ay Hunk! ¡Estoy muerto! Me mató, estoy muerto!”  
  
“Yes, yes.”  
  
“¡No lo entiendes! Él es tan—”  
  
Pidge made their presence known by clearing her throat loudly. Lance immediately closed his mouth mid-rant. Both their heads snap back to look at Pidge and Keith, that Keith thought they’d get whiplash. Then Lance lets out this strangled noise, like a hybrid groan and yodel combined. Hunk covers his mouth, shoulders shaking while he does so.  
  
Keith eyes them warily.  
  
“Well, uh. We got enough ingredients. I’m gonna whip up something really quick. Make yourselves at home.” Hunk mutters as he reaches for some cans from the cupboard. “Go clean up Lance, your dripping blood all over the rug.”  
  
“Whatever man. Oh, and lock the door while you’re at it, yeah?” Lance waves a dismissive hand while rummaging through a cabinet of some sort. Pidge hastily situates herself on their worn couch, leaving Keith to the task himself. He glares at the door, waiting for some metaphorical booby trap to come and snap their ankles or something.  
  
Lance seems to sense his inner turmoil and snickers.  
  
“What’s the matter? You scared of being locked in with this handsome face?”  
  
“I’m not scared!” Keith shoots a glares back at him and slams the door shut. God if Lance kept this up Keith was sure he was going to bust a blood vessel from all the irritation. Pidge eyes narrow a fraction and looks down at Lance.  
  
“Should you really be shouting like that?” She inquires, worrying at her lower lip nervously. “What if the infected hear us?” Keith stiffens. Now that Pidge mentioned it, they were pretty noisy.  
  
“Don’t worry Pidge. Lance and I made sure to choose a soundproof place.” Hunk calls out from the kitchen. Keith sees him dunking something onto a giant pot. “We also did more soundproofing. Extra safety precautions if that helps you feel better.”  
  
Keith notices the tension drain from Pidge’s shoulders, and returns to the task at hand. There are several locks on the wood— security chains, deadbolts and even a bar lock just shy above the knob. After making sure to lock all of them, he looked around to inspect the apartment.  
  
It’s quite small, just enough for one or two occupants. There are two windows, draped with heavy, dark curtains. The concrete floor is covered with a fluffy carpet, colored a dull beige. The walls made of concrete as well, but taped full of papers, a giant map of the state adorning the living room like a television. It’s not much, but it’s definitely secure enough for it to be considered a safe house.  
  
Keith is quite impressed.  
  
“Woah, you okay? Those look pretty nasty.” Keith shifts to see Pidge hovering awkwardly around Lance’s side, notices the way her eyes flick anxiously at his wounds. Lance doesn’t seem to think so, cause he all but snorts, pointing finger guns at Pidge.  
  
“Hakuna Matata, Pidgey-boo,” Pidge’s nose wrinkles in disgust at that pet name but Lance ignores it, taking out some metallic tweezers from what assumes to be a medic kit. “I’ve had way worse than this man, trust me. Considering I live with Hunk over there, you’d think I’d be immune to his killer snoring.” Hunk throws a spatula at Lance’s head for that.  
  
“Do you… want help?” Pidge ventures hesitantly, sighing in relief when Lance gently declined their offer. Keith could tell she only asked out of politeness. But judging from her fidgeting hands, he knew Pidge really didn’t want to have to deal with pulling glass from another person’s hand. As much of a genius as she was, Pidge wasn’t really that well-equipped in the medical department.  
  
He doesn’t mention that, though.  
  
They both watch as Lance gently plucks out the shards from his skin as he would a splinter, the room silent save for the occasional grunts and hisses of pain Lance lets out after each successful extraction. It took several, agonizing minutes until Lance finished. He breathed out a breath of relief and tossed the tweezers into a metal bowl, along with the bloody pieces of glass.  
  
Pidge goes about her way to gather gauzes and bandages from their unorganized medic kit, huffing about learning how to sort the important stuff in their life unless they want to be royally fucked during desperate times.  
  
Keith can barely focus on that, though, opting to stare at Lance, who’s looking at the blood trickling down his hand blankly. His face is devoid of the usual cocky smirks or playful smiles he proudly wears like masks. Even his eyes lost the fire he saw briefly behind those deep blue irises.  
  
Keith keeps staring, boring holes into Lance’s face as if that would explain the unfamiliar behavior he’s displaying. Lance looks up as if noticing Keith’s unabashed leering and surely enough, the mirthful smile worms its way back onto his face. Keith can already feel the irritation starting to pulse in his veins.  
  
“Like what you see?” Lance waggles his brows and Keith scoffs.  
  
“Yeah sure. Seeing you bleeding is the highest form of joy.” Keith deadpans, to which Lance rested a hand over his chest, feigning hurt and clicked his tongue at Keith.  
  
“Boi, I risked this fine piece of ass to save yours. Yet all I get is salt in return.” Lance gestures all over himself and Keith feels the telltale symptoms of a migraine threatening to show. “It won’t hurt to be a little less prickly, you know.”  
  
“Looking at your face physically hurts me.”  
  
At that, Lance lets out a loud, hearty laugh that shocks Keith into silence. He wasn’t really expecting such a jubilant expression on that sassy face, not especially if Keith is the cause of it. Because well, they didn’t exactly get along from the start. They still don’t get along now.  
  
“Ah, the romance. Jesus Keith, you sure know how to make a grown man swoon.” Lance raises a hand to fan his face. Despite himself, Keith felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward. He stops himself before his traitorous mouth could embarrass him, rolling his eyes and ignores Lance.  
  
“What, no smart comeback?”  
  
“Stop flirting and scooch over, patient.” Pidge scoffs, unimpressed. She takes Lance’s hand to bandage. Said newly declared patient blinks in confusion, before smiling sheepishly down at her. Despite the dark, Keith can make out the light blush dusting Lance’s cheeks.  
  
 _No._  
  
Just.  
  
No.  
  
  
“Ding! Food’s done!” Hunk declares proudly, head peeking over at them. Lance whoops at this, to which Pidge immediately chastises him to behave while she wraps the pieces of cloth around his fingers. Lance can’t help but groan and sit up straight.  
  
“Help me set the table Keith?” Hunk calls out nervously from the side, being mindful of Keith’s body language. “I mean if you don’t wanna that’s cool—”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
Hunk blinks in surprise at that, before breaking out a gentle smile at the other. “Cool! Just set them over there— plates and utensils are in the side cupboard to your left.” Keith nods and gets to work. Hunk busies himself by lighting several crayons to brighten up the dark apartment.  
  
  
By the time Keith sets down the last plate Pidge had also finished patching up Lance that he immediately bounds over the table, excited. “Hell yeah! It’s been a while since Hunk made a proper meal! We’ve been nibbling on peanut butter and granola bars for weeks man!” Keith snorts and takes the seat opposite to Lance. Pidge seats beside him.  
  
“Hey! Peanut butter and granola bars are good,” Hunk reappears into the kitchen, cradling a giant bottle in his hands, and promptly slams it on the table.  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“Alcohol. Hey man, I am not letting all of you touch anything without disinfecting,” Hunk sticks his tongue out and shudders. “Lord knows where those hands have been. Also, infected are full of germs man!” Hunk splays his arms out in an overly dramatic manner. “Germs! Bacteria! All that bad shit in the world!”  
  
Pidge and Keith share a look with each other, clearly confused. Lance snorts at them. “Hunk is really obsessed with cleanliness in the kitchen. Nothing to bust a spleen over.” He flicks the cap open and dunks a shy amount of rubbing alcohol onto his fingers before passing it around. Hunk looks at him unimpressed.  
  
“Pidge just cleaned my wounds man, give me a break!”  
  
“Actually no, I haven’t. So you could go drown your hands in antiseptic.” Lance sends Pidge a dirty glare over his shoulder and they continue bickering over alcohol and hygiene in general.  
  
Keith barely registers what they’re saying over his own thoughts.  
  
  
These two are able to argue and joke around like this like it was a normal thing for them. As if the world outside this rundown apartment wasn’t a nightmare— that the events that transpired today were just an ordinary day. Hunk is worrying over trivial things, being uptight about hygiene as if he wasn’t numb to blood and the other horrors of this goddamn life.  
  
Lance is talking easy. Breathing easy. As if he hadn’t almost gotten himself killed trying to be clever, by using himself as live bait; prioritizing Pidge and Keith’s safety above his own. Keith has longed learned that playing hero is only noble in movies. Real life doesn’t treat such foolish stunts kindly. Lance was lucky enough to survive that with only a few injuries.  
  
If there was something this cursed world taught him, was that by allowing your emotions to drip all over the place, you’re basically putting yourself in danger. Getting attached was a no, being kind was a bigger no. Keeping your sense of humanity was the biggest no of all.  
  
They live amongst monsters. Monsters that won’t give a second thought to tear apart your tender flesh.  
  
Discard your once vibrant shell. The life you’ve lived before was no more. You aren’t the same person you were before this hell. In order to survive, you must live like the monsters that prey on you.  
  
No emotions. No sympathy. Nothing at all.  
  
  
  
Keith is envious of it—  
  
Envious of them in a way. How they could keep an optimistic view of life, despite reality crashing down on them like a pile of bricks. It gnaws at his gut, creeps up at his spine and picks on the deepest parts of his brain.  
  
How could these two turn a blind eye on the ugliness of this world? How could they be so welcoming, arms spread out wide, even to a stranger like Pidge and Keith. They could’ve been rogues. Lance and Hunk could be killed without knowing that the people they saved would bite the hand that fed them.  
  
What’s even worse, is that their vibe is slowly affecting him and Pidge. Keith hasn’t seen Pidge talk this animatedly with anyone else aside from him, Shiro and Matt. And that was an exception, considering their small group was friends since the womb. Slight exaggeration, but the point is. Pidge is opening up a lot for someone they only knew for a few hours.  
  
And Keith…  
  
Well, let’s just say that Keith isn’t quick to trust, that even after years he’d still harbor some apprehension towards someone. But, he feels like he could believe in Hunk, with his kind smile and warm personality. And Lance— Lance is… well.  
  
That’s a concept he would rather touch another time, another day.  
  
Preferably never.  
  
“…Okay, this argument is seriously getting off-track. How did it come to this?” Hunk sighs, exasperated.  
  
“We started from hygiene. How we deviated and ended up to pumpkin spice latte and burritos was totally Lance’s fault.” Pidge cocks her head to the side, gesturing at a pouting Lance.  
  
“Hey! That was a perfectly legit argument, admit it!”  
  
“Can we just eat already…” Keith grumbles. They all looked face him. He shrivels under their gaze. It’s as if they forgot he even existed. Fucking rude.  
  
“Oh, right… Well…” Hunk grins sheepishly and reaches his hands out. “Lance, it's your turn."  
  
“What? No man, it’s yours.” Despite this though, Lance reaches out nonetheless, taking Hunk’s hands into his own. He gestures for Keith’s hand, who looks bewildered. Once glance at Pidge tells him that she’s in a similar state of shock as well.  
  
“What?” Lance asks incredulously, an eyebrow shooting up towards his hairline. “Don’t tell me you both live under a rock and don’t know how to say grace?”  
  
“It’s not— of course we know how to pray!” Keith huffed irritatingly and frowned at Lance. Pidge sighs, tiredness weighing down their features. “What Keith means to say is we haven’t said grace in a long time. Not since the… uh, outbreak.”  
  
The silence that follows was deafening.  
  
Keith shifts awkwardly in his seat, avoiding anyone’s gaze. The infection and the virus weren’t exactly good conversation material to talk about while gathered round a table. If Keith was a sensitive man, he would’ve lost his appetite already. But really, he and Pidge were running on crackers for a whole week. The idea of real food filling his stomach was more important than their misfortune.  
  
“Well,” Lance chirps, breaking the awkward atmosphere. “I’m saying grace now so suck it up.” He reaches once again for Keith’s gloved hand, who all but snatches it back to cross over his chest. Lance doesn’t appear pleased by that but thankfully drops it, opting to hold Pidge’s instead.  
  
“We’re thankful,” Lance starts softly, that Keith had to strain to hear it properly. “We’re thankful for the food on the table, for the water in our— oh MY GOD, HUNK! WE TOTALLY FORGOT THE WATER!”  
  
Hunk, irked by the interruption also seems disturbed at the revelation. Pidge groans and refrains from banging her head on the table. “Oh _my god_ Lance. I’ve got water bottles in my pack, just continue.”  
  
“Oh.” Lance clears his throat and carries on. “We’re thankful for the water in our cups. We’re thankful for the roof over our heads, and the clothes on our body. We’re thankful for this day, and the many days to come. We hope tomorrow will be better. Amen.”  
  
Keith honestly doesn't see the appeal for the whole thing. Was this even necessary? With all that's happened, they really didn't have the leisure to wax poetry about hope and believe in a higher power. But he kept his mouth shut. Didn't dare say anything. He knows this is all part of _that_ game. The game he used to know so well.  
  
Illusion. Hope. Denial.  
  
It's a coping mechanism. He knows. People need someone to lean on and turn to in their miserable times, so they rely to things to escape reality; to cope with their problems.  
  
  
What's there to be thankful of in this life anymore?  
  
“Amen,” Hunk parrots and soon they’re all digging into their food. Except for Keith, though, as he squints down at his food. Lance notices this and scoffs.  
  
“It’s not poisoned.” Hunk seems to choke on his stew, which had Keith’s eyes narrowing even more. Lance just sighs and takes a spoonful. “See? No shady business here. Relax.”  
  
Keith hesitantly raises the spoon up to his lips, sniffing on it first before slowly popping it into his mouth.  
  
His eyes widen in surprise. Lance throws his head back and smirks. “What’d I tell ya? Hunk’s the best cook in the world.” Hunk scratches his cheek in embarrassment.  
  
“Over exaggeration.”  
  
“What are you talking about?” Pidge grunts her nod of assent, busy shoveling food into her mouth. “This is amazing! To think you only used a few ingredients! I’m blown away! Literally!”  
  
“Aw stop it, man. You’re making me blush—”  
  
“It’s good…” Keith mumbles before taking another. Pidge and Hunk are looking at him surprised and speechless. Lance simply chuckles and rests his chin on his palm.  
  
“Ah, eres lindo.”  
  
Keith frowns and opens his mouth to demand an English translation but then Hunk beats him to it, coughing a little louder than necessary. “So! Where you guys from?”  
  
“Ryan road.” Pidge supplies casually. Hunk winces at that and Lance whistles lowly. “Damn. That’s pretty far from here.” He adds lowly, raking an appreciative gaze over Keith, who raises his arm to throw his spoon at Lance’s face.  
  
“Um… Pidge? If I may? No offense but uh…” Hunk bites his lower lip, looking down at his bowl. “It doesn’t add up. Like, Lance is right? Ryan road is far. You— you both came all this way just for scrap parts?”  
  
Pidge tenses up and Keith eyebrows furrow, lips tugging down into a frown. Uh oh. That frown usually mean violence and violence around the table is not his thing. Hunk sweats.  
  
“N-Not that I don’t believe you or anything man! I just— I mean, there are some auto shops close there right? So I—”  
  
“Relax Hunk,” Pidge raises both her hands. “It’s alright. We’ll tell you everything.”  
  
“We will?” Keith and Pidge share a meaningful glance at each other. Although it’s more of Keith frowning and Pidge looking like a woman on a mission. Their silent staredown seems to convey a deep message or some sort. Hunk thought for a moment they might be telepathically conversing but that’s totally impossible… Right?  
  
Something agreement must've been breached because Pidge shrugs and replies in a cool, casual tone.  
  
“To be honest, Keith and I were separated from our group. Recently, we’ve received two radio transmissions. One from Hamtramck High and the other from A&S Towne Center, which was where you found us.” She paused, sending a grateful smile to Lance and Hunk before continuing. “It was the most surprising thing, considering we haven’t received any broadcasts for a month. Let alone two in the same week. Anyways a small family were calling out for help at the school. And some shady guy from the town center. Our group was sent to fetch them.”  
  
“Wait, wait. I’m still lost,” Lance pauses from taking the spoon into his mouth, suspended off midair close to his lips but not touching it. “So you guys are what, some kickass group that picks up survivors?”  
  
“That’s one way of putting it, yes.” Pidge nods and raises the bowl to her lips, gulping down the stew in one go. “We provide food, shelter and everything for people who need resources. We also have firearms and ammo as you can see,” She glances at Keith’s gun, perched daintly on the coffee table. “For protection. You know. To keep our little community safe.”  
  
“Little community? Where do you guys live? Since you provide shelter and all you gotta have a base.”  
  
She grins up at them, a sort of smug edge to it. “Detroit Reentry Center.”  
  
Two things happen at once. For one, Lance’s eyes widen in disbelief, almost dropping the spoon is his hand and Hunk’s eyebrows shoot up so high, they disappear into his hairline.  
  
“ _Seriously_? You guys live in a prison?” Lance mumbles, the surprise evident in his voice. There’s also some hints of amazement to it. Pidge nods. “Yep.”  
  
“Isn’t a prison for like, I don’t know— keeping people in instead of out?”  
  
She nods once more, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Indeed. But consider this, a prison is equipped to keep prisoners in. If you’d take that variable and reverse its role, then it would be safe to assume it is strong enough to keep unwanted elements out as well. Plus the center itself has housing, vocational and security facilities. It also has a clinic and food service areas. It may not be the most aesthetically pleasing, but it does the job well.”  
  
Lance and Hunk seem to be speechless at this, the latter opening his mouth as if to say something before closing it. “Weren’t there infected in there?”  
  
In was at this moment that Keith, who was quiet the whole time, spoke up and rolled his eyes. “Of course there was. It took us a while to clear and secure the area.”  
  
Hunk continued, wisely ignoring the sarcastic retort there. “You did say your group got separated. How did it happen?”  
  
The tension returns again, this time tenfold. Pidge grimaces at the question, mouth set in a hard, thin line. “We were… outnumbered. By a horde. I don’t wanna stress the details, just know it was not pretty.”  
  
“What about your other companions? Are they okay?”  
  
“I think so. They said that if anything happens, me and Keith should just make it back to base.” At this point, Hunk started collecting the empty bowls, except for Lance and Keith’s as they’ve somehow challenged each other to an eating contest. “We just stuck around to see if the man from A&S was still there. He wasn’t, which totally sucked. We then hunted for parts so I could build a radio transmitter. Shortly after that was then when you found and saved us.”  
  
Lance hums thoughtfully at that before snickering at Keith, slamming his empty bowl down the table. Keith makes this small, outraged sound and Lance stands up.  
  
“I’m gonna get some shut-eye. You guys can take the couches. Hunk and I will sleep on the floor.” Pidge stands up as well, face obviously protesting at the idea.  
  
“What? But we—”  
  
Lance presses his fingers together repeatedly in front of Pidge’s face. “Ah! No, no, no no! You and Keith take the couch. That’s final.” He grins and pats her head softly. “Hunk! Where’d I put those extra blankets—”  
  
Pidge and Keith look at each other.  
  
  
They say nothing.  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
“Jesus, how many layers are those?”  
  
Lance snorts and dutifully ignores Keith, opting to rub soothing circles of aloe vera on his face. He had finished exfoliating and toning a minute ago, moving onto moisturizing before Keith had shown up and decided to be a dick about it.  
  
He doesn’t put anything on his face, ( _the damn animal_ ) yet his skin was so flawless. Except for the chapped lips, comparable to the cracks of the Sahara desert. Lance however, had to religiously pamper and care for his skin to maintain this glow. One missed regimen and he’d risk a break out.  
  
Why was life so unfair?  
  
“How do you do it?”  
  
“Do what? Keep this skin all snatched and perfect?”  
  
Keith frowns and crossed his arms over his chest, stomping one foot impatiently on the tiled floor. “No asshole! I mean how do you act all normal?”  
  
He didn’t need to explain further. Lance knows what he meant. Keith doesn’t miss the way his hand pauses from their repeated rubbing, before it carries on as if nothing had happened.  
  
“It helps us cope in a way, I guess.” Lance washes his aloe vera-smelling hands, taking his time to lather them in the small bowl of water. He reaches into the drawer for a face mask pack. “Keeps us sane.”  
  
Keith doesn’t say anything at that. Lance can’t seem to gauge his reaction, the other doing a good job to school his expression into a blank, uninterested gaze.  
  
“Hurry the fuck up will you,” He pipes up, finally after a long pause. “I need to piss.”  
  
Lance made sure to take his sweet damn, time.  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
He can’t sleep.  
  
Well, Keith doesn’t sleep in general. It’s one of the things that makes him Keith. Easy to wake, quick to take action. He knows that he’s safe, it’s been made clear that neither Lance nor Hunk have ill intentions and won’t do anything to harm them. He still can’t sleep though.  
  
Keith stares at the ceiling, steadies his breathing. Counts the intervals of Hunk’s snoring and Lance’s incoherent mumbling. When was the last time he’s shared a room and slept with people, aside those from his immediate family?  
  
When was the last time he let down his guard as much as this, to leave himself vulnerable enough that people could strike him down the moment he closes his eyes?  
  
  
 _It’s horrifying_.  
  
The unease settles within the deepest, darkest parts of him. Crawling around and spreading like the damn virus itself. Keith doesn’t like it. This feeling of despair. It makes him feel weak, knowing that he might not live to see another sunrise or that today might be his last night. He might be under a roof with other people but still, he doesn’t feel safe.  
  
He never felt safe.  
  
“Keith?” called a voice, whispering from the darkness. Keith sits up immediately. “Pidge? What’s wro—”  
  
“I want to take them, Keith.” She confesses softly as if it was a grave secret they can't reveal to the world. Keith can barely see her, only the weak light of the makeshift crayon candle illuminating her small frame. “I want to bring them home with us.”  
  
Keith holds his breath. Takes a few moments to recollect himself before speaking up again. “Are you sure? We barely know them Pidge.”  
  
“It’ll be like picking up a survivor,” she pleads. Keith feels a small hand gripping at his blanket. Attached. She's getting attached. The warning sounds are blaring in Keith's head, pounding at his temples like his migraines. “Please. We can tell Allura that they were the ones that broadcasted from A&S.”  
  
“Pidge—” Keith can imagine the face she’s making. It’s that stubborn, determined one when she wants something. And will stop at absolutely nothing to get it.  
  
“Please Keith. After what they’ve done for us—” She stops abruptly, just as Hunk let out a particularly loud snore. Once they were sure that he was truly out cold, Pidge continues. Softer than before.  
  
“They deserve it.” She takes a deep breath and exhales it breathily. “There are still good people in this world and they deserve it, Keith.”  
  
He’s fighting a losing battle here.  
  
  
Keith hums thoughtfully at that thought, his eyelids finally getting heavy as the seconds drag on. “I— Okay. Yeah. We’ll take them.”  
  
He doesn’t need to see to know that she was smiling.  
  
“Tomorrow then,” She promises and Keith knows there’s no turning back from this one. “We’ll tell them tomorrow. Goodnight Keith.”  
  
  
Keith hears a muted, drawn out yawn from her. He lies back down, settling into a comfortable position before finally closing his eyes. He lets sleep take over, drifting him out of consciousness and into the all familiar world of blank dreams.  
  
  
 _Yeah._  
  
  
  
 _Tomorrow._  
  
  
  
  


**_____________**

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I'm not fluent in Spanish nor do I live in Detroit. My knowledge of Spanish relied solely on Google Translate, Dora, and my grandma. My knowledge on Detroit relied solely on Google maps. So pardon me if there were any inaccuracies. Please don't hesitate to tell me if there is!  
> Also, if anyone was uncomfortable with the whole religion shebang, I'm sorry but I want to tackle it as a more subjective thing.
> 
> Spanish translations:  
>  _Tienes que ser fuerte_ \- You have to be strong  
>  _Tienes que sobrevivir_ \- You have to survive  
>  _Mijo & Hijo_ \- Son  
>  _Mi querido valiente hijo. No estés triste_ \- My dear brave son. Don't be sad.  
>  _Prométeme… Que sobrevivirás_ \- Promise me... That you will survive  
>  _Te amo_ \- I love you  
>  _Mi amigo_ \- My friend  
>  _Moreno_ \- brown  
>  _cabrón_ \- asshole  
>  _¡Estoy muerto! Me mató, estoy muerto!_ \- I'm dead! He killed me, I'm dead!  
>  _¡No lo entiendes! Él es tan—_ \- You don't understand! He's so—  
>  _Ah, eres lindo_ \- Ah, you're cute
> 
> Thanks for reading! I might post chapter 2 soon or not who knows


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